


Bill, Book and Candle

by ufp13



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-19
Updated: 2009-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ufp13/pseuds/ufp13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP, but nope, no smut; nonetheless, this mood piece has even less plot than my average fic. O.O</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bill, Book and Candle

She knew she should have woken him instead of turning off the lamp, but he looked so peaceful, she didn’t have the heart to disturb him, yet. Sooner or later, she would have to do it for the thought of him putting up with aching muscles due to sleeping half sitting, half lying on the couch held on appeal. Nonetheless, she couldn’t resist studying him. Since he usually was up before her and asleep after her, she seldom managed to catch a glimpse of his face relaxed as it was now.

The few candles that illuminated the quarters bathed him in a warm shine which accentuated the softness nobody would ever associate with the no-nonsense kind of person the admiral of the fleet was. To Laura, though, this almost vulnerable man lying on the couch next to her wasn’t a stranger. Like those flames which enlightened the darkness, he served as guiding light, could evoke pain when you got too close and didn’t know how to handle it, him; yet coldness and blows undermined his strength.

All those scars she knew he had, knew them personally after having kissed each and every one of them, knew their stories in his words told during a long and sleepless night that had been about accepting, healing, were silent memorials of mistakes made, brushes with death, reminders of the perishableness of being – not only to him anymore, but to her, as well. Under the veil of warm light, a welcome contrast to the usual cold, harsh illumination of the battlestar, which was merciless and sharpened the edges instead of flowing around them, chamfering them; even the scars seemed diminished, barely whispering their tale, going into hiding as if not to disturb the peacefulness of the moment by hinting to the ruthless reality lurking right outside the hatch.

When he suddenly shifted in sleep, he not only startled his observer but also nearly caused the book he was holding loosely to slide to the ground. Careful not to rouse him, she dislodged the volume from his hand: one of those strong hands that had killed numerous times yet were capable of the most gentle caress she had ever felt. Marking the page with the picture of them dancing at Colonial Day he used as a bookmarker – to have a good memory nearby no matter how disastrous the book or the world around him, them, got, he had explained when she first had found it and had looked at him questioningly – she put the book soundlessly on the couch table. Back then, the comment about how sweet it was and what a rather girlish thing it was to do had hovered on the tip of her tongue for a short moment before she had swallowed it forevermore; even the great William Adama needed emotional footing, needed a smile, needed love, and she was more than happy to provide any of this as much as she could. However, she was well aware of being the cause of some of the wrinkles that weren’t as prominent on his face now as they were when he was awake. Coming to think of her own lines, though, he had definitely returned the favour. While not being a particularly vain woman, she hadn’t been overjoyed finding more and more wrinkles during the last years, but ever since Bill had developed the habit of kissing each one when time permitted it, she saw them with other eyes. Yes, they had gotten under each other’s skin – in more than one way.

Affectionately, she trailed a finger along an unruly strand, still mindful not to interrupt his dormancy. She loved to comb her fingers through his hair when they spent a quiet evening on this very couch, to grab it hard during sessions of passionate lovemaking, to play with the locks at the neck just to tease him whenever the opportunity arose. At times, it fuelled the feeling of loss of her own fiery red locks, but, despite sympathising with her, missing winding a lock around his fingers, burying his face in the mane when cuddling behind her in bed, Bill had taught her to accept, to like her baldness. With kisses and random patters drawn by his digits onto the bare skin, he had evoked sensations that, while foreign, were pleasurable. Sometimes, when pure playfulness took possession of him, he would even draw pictures or words. One time, it had been ‘dinner’ after having unsuccessfully tried to call her away from work verbally. Usually, though, his mouth didn’t have any problems catching her attention. Quite the contrary was true. She tended to experience difficulties tearing her gaze or lips away from it.

Right now, his lips were slightly parted and looked kissably inviting, as always. She loved his kisses in every variation they came: soft in passing, hard in passion, long in the morning, lazy in the evening, and always loving. Unable to resist, she leaned down and breathed a kiss onto his mouth, barely touching him. Sitting back up, she traced his bottom lip in a similar whispered way. When he nudged her finger unexpectedly, her gaze moved upward a bit to his eyes, finding them open, albeit clearly veiled by drowsiness. Slowly, he reached for her to pull her down for one of those lazy, vespertine kisses.

Once they parted, he straightened his back, hissing at the sudden bolt of pain that shot through his nerves and muscles.

“Rack?” she inquired, instantly giving him a helping hand to get to his feet.

“Rack,” he confirmed, longing for a comfortable good night’s sleep with this delicate yet strong and beautiful woman in his arms. After all, he had fallen asleep on his couch waiting for just that.

= End =


End file.
